The Ritual
by Salome Sensei
Summary: Naraku's obsession with the Shikon jewel demands a very precise, intense ritual. Beware the squick. Don't read if you don't like Naraku's perversity. Adults only, please.


Salome Wilde 09/08

The Ritual

Author's Note: Originally written for iyhedonism's "obsession" prompt, 1000 word count. Took first place. **Squicky ending**, don't read if you don't like Naraku's perversity. Cuz it's really perverse. Adults only, please.

Dedication: For abraxas ren. (Read his fics on ffnet. Really. He makes my perversity look amateurish by comparison!)

The ritual begins. Naraku's minions—whether of his flesh or of his shard-enhanced will—produce their offerings formally and silently. As commanded, each bears a fragment of the Shikon Jewel. Though he will continue to obtain and receive the shards individually and informally, this rite has come to obsess him even more than the jewel itself. He sits, crosslegged, on his recreation of Lord Hitomi's throne, vaingloriously wearing his facsimile of Hitomi's body. He feasts his red eyes greedily on his delicious little parade, this testament to his power and precursor to the private ceremony he will conduct once they have gone.

Kagura bows then gently drops her recovered shard into Naraku's extended hand, clearly wanting no contact with his flesh. He smirks at her little rebellion but does not remark upon it. Gracefully, she pivots on her lotus-blossom foot and pads from his chambers without a backward glance. He considers calling her back, to demand her resistant attention a moment longer or perhaps to command some trivial task, just because he can. But this is only the prelude to his greater passion; why complicate matters needlessly? Even as she leaves, he can smell her disdain like an aphrodisiac. He welcomes this unintended gift, but, in truth, receiving the shards is always foreplay enough.

How different is Kagura from Kanna, who not only has no scent but actually seems to suck the very air dry of aura around her. There is something pleasing about that, like cleansing the palate. She holds her mirror in one hand and the shard in the other, and passes it with a touch of cool fingertips. Kanna gives up her treasure gently, expressionlessly—the epitome of selfless, childlike devotion.

Kohaku is more truly a child, and yet his aura is more intricate than Kanna's or Kagura's. Kohaku's blank eyes belie but cannot truly smother the struggle within him to overcome the conferred amnesia, to fully accept the life-sustaining and mind-controlling properties of the shard within him. Kohaku does not want contact with other fragments, but he always obeys. He extends little cupped hands containing the tiny, shining prize. Naraku extends his slender, elegant fingers to withdraw it with a gentle sweep across the boy's palms. There is no physical reaction, no flinching, but Naraku relishes the internal cringe as a delightful appetizer.

Waving Kohaku away, he holds his three chosen treasures in his hands. All are lustrous, opalescent, filled with power. One is a recent acquisition. One he has used in the ceremony before. And one he has saved, never employed until this moment, when he needs the shards' power to keep the disparate demon souls that comprise him united. The little collection makes his hands thrum, his cock throb. He must have patience and deferral to be truly satisfied. Hence, he now closes his eyes and senses the history of each. No pleasure but in details, he chuckles to himself.

The first fragment has come from the forehead of a horned giant of a demon, blind to all but the desire to devour human children. The fool fell to Sesshoumaru's poisoned claws in defending the pathetic girl he protects. The battle was so pitifully short that its memory offers scant entertainment to the devious spider. Never mind, it will suffice.

The second piece was last deep within the bowels of a centipede, holding its very life together after a skirmish with another lesser demon. The effect was to magnify its size but not its wisdom, and Inuyasha easily brought it down. Again, the gratification of knowing the exploits of his nemeses does not match up to the specifics of the little history. He labors to quiet his discontent and moves on.

The third is the treasure. It is larger than the others, jagged and angular. He lays it upon his tongue, as if to suck out the tale of its sweet, complex travels. It came to him only recently, retrieved with the last of the jewels he had lent to the Band of Seven. Bankotsu's halberd was strengthened by it. Before this, Renkotsu took it from the accursed miko. He samples the flavor of Kagome's pale hands, which touched it so gingerly before placing it in her little vial. Then he aims deeper, and the ragged sliver gives up the best of its past: the wolf. Fitted into Kouga's arm, the shard proffered strength the fool neither merited nor knew how to use. He drinks in the tang of Kouga's howl at its loss to the Bird of Paradise, his cowardly flight as Kagome retrieved it from the fallen beast. The recovery of the trail makes his cock ache. He pumps the thickening organ, now leaking anticipatory tears. It is time.

Naraku gently spits the shard back into his waiting palm, then places all three upon his thigh. Slowly, reverently, he takes the first, lengthwise, and shoves it into his weeping cock. The tiny hole is forced to accept the sharp spike but does not do so without protest. He pants from the deep, rich pain as he grabs the second and presses it down after its brother. He howls as he brings forth a font of pre-seminal fluid, hot blood, and liquid miasma. Tentacles sprout from his back unbidden. His hands grow sticky and slippery but do not lose their dexterity, their purpose. He groans and sweats. So tiny in appearance they are, yet immense as they follow their overtight trajectory. By the time he grasps the third, he feels the screaming inside him begin. He force-feeds his shaft to bursting as his torso devolves into the oozing, writhing mass of the thousand demons within. He arches and yowls in orgasm, an implosion that swallows the shards into the heart of his amorphous composite body, teasing at the edges of Onigumo, then reverses and vomits them from his torn cockhead. He laughs hoarsely as the ritual ends, fused back into himself as the bloodied fragments clatter to the floor at his rejuvenated feet.


End file.
